


A Perfect Circle

by sasha_b



Series: Live By The Sword [2]
Category: King Arthur (2004), Original Work
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-07-12
Updated: 2013-07-12
Packaged: 2017-12-19 05:19:35
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,866
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/879894
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/sasha_b/pseuds/sasha_b
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Arthur delivers some news.</p>
            </blockquote>





	A Perfect Circle

**Author's Note:**

> Part of the Live By The Sword series. This is the second story written. Series told out of order, and it features snippets of the lives of Arthur Castus, the son of famous police captain Uther Castus, and Lancelot Benoit, heir to the Benoit crime family syndicate.
> 
>  
> 
> Title and lyrics courtesy of Maynard James Keenan.

_Still you pray, never stray, never taste of the fruit, never thought to question why_

Lights flash as he makes his way down the stairs, almost tripping over the people sprawled in the corners, sucking at each others faces and other things Arthur doesn’t want to know about.

 

The music assails him immediately, and it’s a song he’s not really familiar with, but he’s heard his friends sing it a few times along with the radio.

 

_Oh so many ways for me to show you how your saviour has abandoned you_

 

Nice sentiment, he thinks, but the rest of the thoughts are gone as his eyes light on the person he’s been searching for.

 

Sweat drips down the man’s face, his dark out of control hair springing all over the place, some of it twisted from the workout he’s getting. His leather pants are skin tight; Arthur wonders how in the hell he can even walk in those things, much less move the way he is.

 

Which in and of itself is distracting and intoxicating and a giant fucking turn on.

 

His black shirt gapes open at the throat, showing pale, pale skin and the edge of the necklace he’s always wearing. Arthur pushes his way through the throbbing crowd, and finally reaches his goal.

 

His friend’s eyes are closed; he’s involved in his own beat and is swaying like no one else is watching, which is massive bullshit because Arthur can see that over half the eyes of the room are on him.

 

Arthur taps the other man on the shoulder, who smirks but keeps moving to the song. “Found me, did you?” He turns his back on Arthur, hips rocking slowly (God! Those pants) so that Arthur has a hard time concentrating on his task at hand.

 

_It’s not like you killed someone_

_Not like you shoved a hateful spear into his side_

 

“Can we talk outside?” Arthur shouts in order to be heard over the wailing of Maynard Keenan, the song seeming to jerk and submerge itself into Arthur’s bloodstream. He wants to get the hell out of that club, now.

 

“You’re a fucking buzzkill, you know that?” the other man says, but stops dancing, pushing Arthur out of the way as he walks (more like stalks, Arthur thinks) off the floor.

 

Arthur follows, like he always will, sadist, and they wind their way back up the stairs and out into the streets of Los Angeles, passing the line of kids still waiting to get inside. Arthur pities them – outside, things are calm, collected, in control. Most of the time at any rate.

 

They turn the corner, a tiny park at the end of the street, and walk silently there, Arthur’s target digging a cigarette out of his shirt pocket, the flare from his lighter making his eyes glow yellow momentarily.

 

Arthur thinks of a jungle cat, hungry and waiting.

 

At last the man sits on a bench, and leans over, his forearms on his thighs, still slick with sweat, which Arthur can smell as he takes his seat next to him. His body hardens instantly, fucking hell stop it, but he ignores it. For the moment.

 

“Lance.”

 

“Arthur,” the other man mocks, and drags off his cigarette. He doesn’t say anything, placidly calm and patient. Arthur, on the other hand, is antsy, feeling like bugs are busily working under his clothes, and dreading with everything in him what he has to do.

 

“He’s dead, isn’t he?”

 

Arthur’s head jerks toward Lancelot, and he narrows his eyes. “Did someone else tell you?” he asks. How else could he have known so quickly?

 

“You’re here, aren’t you?” Lancelot says criptically, smoke billowing around his pointed face. “Why else would you deign to be seen with me anymore?”

 

Fuck. Not now, not this.

 

“Lancelot,” Arthur starts, using the man’s full name, which he hates, so Arthur knows it will get his attention – and he’s right. The younger man turns toward him, sitting up straighter, and Arthur’s breath is sucked out of him, just as it is every time he gets the up close effect of the other man.

 

Big, big luminous brown eyes surrounded by thick spiky lashes, high cheekbones, long straight nose, closely cropped beard surrounding full lips that make Arthur ache to look at them.

 

He had them once. Never again.

 

“Don’t fucking call me that,” Lancelot says, biting off the words. He sighs. “What do you want, Artorius?”

 

Arthur’s mother had been from Rome, thus the Latinized version of his name. Not many people knew his real name. He refrains from wincing. “He is dead. And you know what that means.”

 

“I do know what it means. What I don’t know is what you think I’m going to do about it, or why you think I would care.” Lancelot takes the final puff of his cigarette, and tosses the butt to the ground in front of him, staring at the winking ash til it’s dark.

 

“Because he was your father, whether you choose to acknowledge it or not,” Arthur answers softly. “Your family expect you to do something.”

 

Lancelot barks a laugh, and looks at Arthur again. “The infamous Benoit clan can go fuck themselves, Arthur. I’ve had it.”

 

What?

 

Arthur stares at Lancelot like horns have sprouted from his head. “You – what?”

 

“I’ve. Had it, Arthur,” Lancelot says again, slowing his words down. “I can’t do it anymore. I can’t live with their lies, with the cliched crap, the violence, the neverending hate,” he laughs again, his body turning all the way to face Arthur head on, his knee bending to rest on the bench, their skin inches apart.

 

Arthur swallows hard, scooting forward unconsciously, the heavy thing he wears around his own neck sliding out of his shirt. Lancelot’s eyes tick downward to it, and he reaches out, fingering the stiff leather casing.

 

“How does this feel?” he asks suddenly, his voice quiet, reminding Arthur so much of the young man he used to know.

 

“Like I can do anything,” Arthur answers, “like I can save the world.” And he means it.

 

Lancelot flips the cover up, fingering the lettering on the steel badge. “Castus. Badge number 10003447,” he reads. “To Protect and Serve.”

 

As if on cue, choppers thwip thwip overhead, and both men raise their heads, watching. “Riots in the Hills again,” Arthur comments, “I’m on detail tomorrow.”

 

Lancelot’s long fingers hesitate on the badge, then trace the line of the leather cord, sliding upwards to rest on Arthur’s throat, finding the big pulse there.

 

His whole hand spreads out, covering the jugular. 

 

Arthur inhales sharply at the same time Lancelot exhales a broken, hitchy breath. Their eyes drop closed in unison, and they sit on the tiny park bench in silence, Arthur’s heart beating for the both of them.

 

“How different do you think it would have been?” Lancelot whispers, his eyes opening again, their whites botched by the red capilaries Arthur can see because of his proximity.

 

“How what would have been, Lance?” he asks.

 

“Us. This. Life.”

 

Arthur’s eyes slide shut again, and he merely concentrates on the feel of the other man’s hand on his neck.

 

It’s the only contact he’ll get from Lancelot anytime soon. 

 

And does he think of how different things would have been had their lives and circumstance not stepped in the way?

 

Every second of every day.

 

“I don’t know,” he answers, horrified at the tears in his voice. Stop it, Castus. He’s not coming back to you. Forget it. Your whole life is ahead of you – take the step to grasp it like you should. Like you’ve wanted since your father died.

 

He stiffens; Lancelot feels it, because he withdraws his hand with a wry smile that freezes Arthur’s heart.

 

His soul would be frozen as well if it weren’t already in the other man’s possession – but he’s not going to admit that.

 

Lancelot stands, his shirt flapping in the night air, wind blowing the popping sounds and faint screams from the direction of Beverly Hills toward them in their little park sanctuary.

 

He scrubs a hand through his hair, his musky sweaty scent floating to Arthur, which makes a thousand memories and a million regrets blindside the older man. Arthur shakes his head, and remembers to tuck his badge inside his shirt. Wouldn’t do for some cop killer or crazy person to get a look at that.

 

Lancelot lights another cigarette, the smoke curling around him, obscuring his face momentarily. When Arthur can see it clearly again, the familiar pain free mask has dropped into place, and for a second Arthur mourns the memory of his friend, hating the shell that’s taken his place.

 

But he understands, nonetheless.

 

Arthur opens his mouth, has to clear his throat, then is able to speak. “You going home?” Lancelot looks at him. “Yeah. What else can I do? Follow you to the academy?”

 

Their eyes meet, green clashing with brown, and possibilities sigh between them with the breeze.

 

“You could.”

 

Lancelot stares at Arthur, once his closest friend and lover, his eyes popping wide. For the briefest of seconds, Arthur thinks, hopes, wishes he’s going to actually consider it.

 

“Yes. I could also go ahead and kill myself, because that’s the only result we’d get from me doing that,” the other man answers, walking out of the park toward his car. Arthur follows, stopping at the window when Lancelot gets in, slamming the door, effectively separating them with steel.

 

“Will you … will you at least call me?” Arthur says finally, his hand going to the windowsill, resting on the edge. “Tell me what happened.”

 

“Arthur. You’ll see it on the news tomorrow,” Lancelot laughs again. He’s full of wit tonight. “I won’t need to. God forbid the world didn’t find out the fate of the Mob when the patriarch bites it.”

 

Arthur’s gut jerks at Lancelot’s casual use of that word – which Arthur hates almost as much as Lancelot hates his name.

 

“Lance,” Arthur sighs out. Last chance. Tell him how you feel. You’ve never forgotten. You never will. You’ll never love anyone else –

 

“Don’t.”

 

Lancelot’s fingers grasp Arthur’s, bringing them to his mouth, his lips scorching a kiss on Arthur’s palm.

 

He drops the hand as if burned himself, and screeches away, the car leaving a trail of smoke and burned rubber that makes Arthur cough.

 

A perfect circle. A snake that eats its own tail. A vicious cycle. So many stupid sayings; they fill Arthur’s head with their nonsense as he watches Lancelot drive off, his hand rising slowly to his face, imprinting the feel of the other man’s lips in his memory, along with the other ones he’s had to lock away for fear of not being able to exist with them in his head. Not without the other man there to make new ones.

 

He has to get up early. He’s done what he told Lance’s sister Gwen he would do. He trudges back down the walk to his smaller, much less flashy Toyota, and heads for the freeway, and to the silence he knows waits for him at home.

 

_You never thought to question why_


End file.
